


Burn

by vesper_house



Series: Morning Comes [4]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DCU (Movies), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, Inappropriate Use of Candles, Light Masochism, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Wax Play, safety first kiddos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-07-02
Packaged: 2018-07-19 13:33:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7363282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vesper_house/pseuds/vesper_house
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Date night at Clark's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burn

**Author's Note:**

> This took forever to write and it's not even that long... Anyways, enjoy this new kind of kink. Because they have a lot of those. Like, so many. You wouldn't believe.

Each of their rare dates feels like a holiday, so it is only natural that Clark has cleaned up the entire apartment and bought himself a new, crispy white shirt. Bruce’s favorite ground coffee found its place in the kitchen cabinet, so did a low-fat Greek yoghurt in the fridge. There is a lot of candles, bedsheets smell of mountain freshness, radio plays smooth jazz.

Clark looks around the place and thinks _I’m a total sap._ The realization does not really bother him. If he learned anything in his life, it is that little moments should be celebrated. The way Bruce makes him feel deserves recognition. Not to mention that preparing for a date gives Clark a much needed illusion of living an ordinary life.

When Bruce shows up, it is like the air suddenly went out. Their lips meet with a bit too much tongue for just a hello kiss.

“Nope,” Clark pushes him away. “Dinner first. Dirty stuff later.” Bruce pouts overdramatically. “Stop that, it’s not cute.” It kind of is, but Clark really wants them to eat before getting down to business. “Move, our dinner needs my attention.”

“I can show you what needs your attention,” Bruce does not miss a beat. Clark tries not to giggle.

“You’re not cute, you’re not even smooth. Why do I put up with you?”

“Must be the money,” Bruce smirks.

“Right,” Clark rolls his eyes and moves to put some pasta in the boiling water. Meanwhile Bruce takes off his coat. His hair is dotted with snowflakes – a nice match to the healthy dose of color in his stubbly cheeks. Combined with the lush, knit sweater, his entire look is unbelievably cozy.

“Did you get here by helicopter?” Clark asks, trying to keep his eyes on the pasta and not on his very rich, attractive, dangerous vigilante boyfriend. _I never stood a chance,_ he muses without a slightest hint of remorse.

“Yeah. Not without bribing the pilot,” Bruce says. “I hate snow.”

“I quite like it. I’ve promised Ma we will go somewhere with a lot of snow this year. She wants to have white Christmas for once.”

“Swiss Alps are charming in the winter.”

“I was thinking Colorado, you trust fund baby.”

“You’re full of sass today,” Bruce sneaks his palm into the back pocket of Clark’s jeans. Clark squirms under the touch: it is almost embarrassing how quickly Bruce can make him come undone. “Here. Keep stirring.” He hands the slotted spoon to Bruce for distraction.

“Yes sir.” Despite Clark’s early assumptions, Bruce really does know how to cook – he may not be a chef, but he is definitely able to feed himself. He drains the pasta while Clark adds more seasoning to the sauce; all that is left is to let it simmer.

“Alright, ten more minutes and we’re gonna eat,” Clark sets the timer on his phone. Then he approaches Bruce with a smile, wraps his arms around the man’s middle and pulls him up. Now Bruce is sitting on the kitchen counter. Clark clings to him like a koala bear, arms wrapped firmly around his waist.

“I thought we were saving the dirty stuff for later.” Bruce sounds like he is not entirely comfortable with what is currently going on.

“Hugging isn’t dirty,” Clark says, voice muffled by Bruce’s sweater.

“But why now?”

“Because I’m going to feed you and you should be nice to me,” Clark says and looks up. “Come on. It’s just ten minutes.”

Bruce is tense. His arms are stiff when he puts them around Clark’s neck. It is not that he has never done that before – he just rarely put any meaning behind it.

Clark holds him even tighter, trying to say with his body language everything that the brain is too afraid to communicate with words. He knows very well that Bruce likes being touched only on his own terms. Physical contact that does not lead to anything sexual is a rarity in their relationship: Clark is determined to change it. He lets out a content huff – a sound people usually make after tucking themselves in bed and finding that one perfect position in which they will immediately fall asleep.

Bruce’s heartbeat exposes his uneasiness. Clark takes deep, measured breaths as if he could calm it down himself. _Please, don’t be scared of me._ He inhales Bruce’s scent, a potent mix of cinnamon, winter, laundry detergent and something achingly _him._ Clark keeps his eyes closed. He is safe here.

Bruce gradually relaxes. He gives into the embrace, finally accepting what it means. Nobody says a word right until the timer goes off. Clark steals a peck on the cheek.

“Let’s eat.”

To his delight, Bruce all but attacks the spaghetti like he has not eaten in days. Ma is right: the secret Kent’s recipes are witchcraft.

“This is good,” Bruce praises. Clark beams up with pride. “Glad you like it.”

“By the way, I’ve read your article,” Bruce says and takes a sip of wine.

“Really? Which one?” The billionaire never said anything about reading the Planet. Clark’s heart makes a double flip.

“Adam Price found dead in a motel.” According to the authorities, the man was solely responsible for the gas leak explosions in November – it was Clark’s story since the beginning. The investigation proved that Price’s company saved a lot of money on materials and technical support. The books however were crystal clean: no one knew were the money went until Price disappeared with nearly half a million dollars. Bullet to the head disrupted his new way of living. “You’ve missed a few facts.”

“Like what?” Clark asks, a little offended.

“His name wasn’t Adam Price. It was Anthony Douglas,” Bruce says. “Smalltime businessman who liked to bite more than he could chew. Did six years for tax fraud.”

“Just out of curiosity…” Clark has to know, “do you remember the face of every single crook in this country?”

Bruce gives him a pointed look. “Douglas was always trying to climb his way up to the top with a little help from more powerful friends. Perhaps someone was immune to his charms.”

“Who were these friends? Gotham crowd?”

“Some of them. Basically everyone in need of getting the dirt off of a couple thousand dollars. Douglas was good at that.”

“He stole the money from one of his clients,” Clark concludes quickly, “that’s why he got shot.”

Bruce nods. “The interesting part is why would he even do that. He didn’t seem like a guy with a death wish. My guess is that he knew the lousy gas delivery system was about to blow up.”

“Yeah, there were some complaints five months prior to the explosion.”

“So Douglas probably asked for cover in case it all goes down. He didn’t want to face jail time again. But they’ve told him to fuck off. He panics. Tries to be sneaky, steals the money, but for some reason doesn’t get out of Metropolis.”

“Maybe he made a deal with the police,” Clark muses, already writing the first sentence of the next article in his head.

“I’m going to find out. But I need you to drop this scoop.”

Clark waits for an explanation. He gets none. “Why?”

“You’ve been writing about Batman a little too often. It’s getting dangerous.”

“I’ve started writing about this case before you got involved.” Clark retorts. “Besides, Perry blocks my stories if I mention Batman more than once. Almost nothing gets out.”

“It’s still too much.” Bruce’s voice gets harsher. “People are watching, Clark. I don’t want to give them any chance to notice the connection between us, be it Superman and Batman or Clark and Bruce. All it takes is one nosy bastard. We have to be careful.” They munch on their food in silence. “Stop thinking about the article.”

Clark sighs. “I could say you’re an anonymous source.” He is not going to give up the story that easily.

“Anonymous my ass,” Bruce mutters and empties the bottle into their glasses. Clark drinks and wonders if Bruce ever got a taste of real anonymity.

“Do you have any clues?” He asks.

“Some.” Bruce clearly does not want to continue the subject.

“Can I at least ask you to watch out for yourself?” It is a torture: knowing that Bruce is in danger, _hearing_ him getting into a fight when the odds are not in his favor, and being told to stay away.

Bruce just smirks.  

Later, when they are slowly undressing each other on the bed, Clark cannot help but wonder how terrible it is – to cherish something as vulnerable as human being. Even though Bruce is built like a brick house, the scars on his body tell a rich history of near death experiences. They are pale and faded, except–

“What happened?” Clark asks quietly when he sees purple bruises on Bruce’s right side.

“I fell,” he grunts. Clark straddles him and takes a closer look. The ugly constellation spreads from the waist up to the armpit. Bruce distracts him with a kiss. “It’s nothing.” That is a lie. Not the only one they have to face, but it can wait. Right now all that matters is to get closer. Clark soothes the abused area of his lover's body with cold breath. Bruce lets out a peculiar moan – breathless, almost like it caused him pain. “Good?” Clark asks, panting slightly. Bruce nods. Their lips lock again, urgent, overheated.

Clark rocks gently against Bruce’s fingers. He cannot help but gasp softly as they stretch his entrance. This is the part he might like even more than the finish itself: the moment of anticipation right before sinking on that fat cock, trying to remember how it felt the last time and still being surprised by how good it is. The shift between being empty and full that makes him forget about the whole world. The feeling of being desired so desperately by _him._

With both hands splayed on Bruce’s chest and eyes closed, Clark starts to ride him slowly. _I’ve missed you_ goes through his head, even though the last time they have seen each other was less than a week ago. Bruce has a firm hold on his ass, watching Clark’s bouncing dick through half-closed eyelids. Warm candlelight softens their skin tones and sharp edges. It is like a part of a long forgotten dream.

Clark’s hand accidentally brushes against the bruises, which makes Bruce go tense and hiss in pain.

“Sorry, sorry,” Clark apologizes with a series of small kisses.

Bruce does not seem upset at all. There is a weird expression on his face as he lifts his hands up and grabs at the headboard’s posts. “Do it again,” he says. It is not a plea.

Clark hesitates. He has spent a better part of his life doing everything not to hurt anyone, always painfully aware of his physical advantage. Being asked to do something like this in the bedroom, their safest spot, does not sit right with him.

“I’m not going to break, Kal.”

The sound of the forbidden name coming from his lover’s mouth gives Clark goosebumps. He complies and presses on the bruised skin in the gentlest way possible. Encouraged by the reaction, he puts more strength into it. Another hiss, arched back, and a harsh command: “Ride my dick.”

Clark listens immediately, a bit ashamed of how much Bruce’s pained moans turn him on. He discreetly checks if the man got any of his ribs broken. Fortunately, he have not.

“ _Nghhh,_ ah fuck,” Bruce snarls through clenched teeth after a hard squeeze. Despite the obvious pain he is still hard as a rock. Clark feels punch-drunk, ready to come at any second now. He slows down and averts his gaze from the hot body beneath him. A candle is burning cheerfully on the night table.  

“What are you doing?” Bruce asks weakly. The sight of Clark holding a candle right over his chest is all the explanation needed. He smirks.

The first drop of hot wax lands on Bruce’s nipple. Clark moves his hips even slower to prolong the fun. Drops form a pattern: wry line on the chest, stomach, and a little lower. Bruce shivers slightly whenever they fall, not hot enough to burn but just perfect to tease him mercilessly. Clark puts the candle back and uses the freezing breath one more time.

“Take the tumbler one,” Bruce says, his voice heavy. “I’ll tell you when to spill it.”

“You sure about this?” Clark asks. There is a lot of wax in the tumbler – it has the potential to cause actual harm.

“Yes,” Bruce moans, “take it and fuck yourself on my dick.”

It is not easy to keep the rhythm and the candle in hand at the same time while also trying to delay an impending orgasm. Clark thinks he deserves a goddamn medal. Bruce’s body is getting tense, his grip more brutal as he gets higher and higher on his path to completion.

“Do it now,” he orders. He comes with a piercing shout when the splash of hot wax pours all over his chest and abs. Clark drops the extinguished candle to the side and looks for any burns. “I’m good,” Bruce murmurs. A couple of precise tugs and Clark comes as well, his semen pooling right next to the solidified wax on Bruce’s skin.

\---

“You know, I bet everyone thinks you’re innocent,” Bruce says when they get ready to sleep, clean and positively wax-less. “Poor, shy Clark from Kansas. Blushes when someone tells a dirty joke. Has sex only in missionary position after dark.”

“What’s wrong with missionary position?” Clark smiles, still a little lightheaded.

“Nothing. We should give it a try some time.”

“Mmmm, so lewd.”

They chuckle quietly. Bruce falls asleep first – he always does that at Clark’s place. He does not know yet that it is about to become _his_ place as well, but first Clark needs to find the courage to give him a spare key. Today is not the day.


End file.
